


The Flood

by seoulcity



Category: Batfamily - Fandom, Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics), Tim Drake - Fandom, Timothy Drake - Fandom, batfam - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Batfamily, Red Robin, Self Harm, batfam, tim drake - Freeform, timothy drake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoulcity/pseuds/seoulcity
Summary: Based off Robert Frost's poem The Floodtrigger warnings on this one: There is self-harm, beginning stages of suicidal ideation, blood, underage drinking, and self-deprecating thoughts. Please, you’ve been warned, if any of those don’t sit well with you please DO NOT read.





	The Flood

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A TRIGGERING PIECE! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! PLEASE!!  
tw: self harm, self-deprecating thoughts, underage drinking

Blood has been harder to dam back than water  
Just when we think we have it impounded safe  
Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe)  
It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter

Spilling blood was a given as a vigilante. As the years passed, the pain seemed to dull into nothing whenever Tim got hurt. It was as if he was becoming invincible to the pain, the blood spilled but no longer did his tears. He remembered the first wounds he got when he first became Robin. He knew there was going to be pain involved, hell the previous Robin had died on the job. But his 13-year-old self was not ready for the pain of ripped sutures and covering up the wounds in public. Tears constantly stung his eyes as his sutures were constantly being tugged on due to the placement of the wound. Sometimes he wondered how much practice it took for Bruce to be so stoic.

But as Tim got older, he got better at fighting. He was able to effectively hold back enemies while taking them down in an efficient manner. Fewer wounds this way and using his bo staff made it easier for him to hold some distance between him and his foes. His skin had scarred, and it was like a new barrier he had set up, bruises were still a common occurrence, but cuts and lacerations were a thing of the past.

As time passed, the bad guys only got tougher. They fought harder, and they weren’t afraid to fight dirty. It eventually turned into a new kind of slaughter. Patrols turned into bloody messes and suits were constantly needing mending. But even then, Tim felt nothing. No pain, no feelings. It was like a mechanical process of going out on patrol and just going through the motions. The adrenaline stopped pumping through his bloodstream. His numbness started to affect his patrolling abilities, less focus made him prone to more injuries. But as he was wracked with injuries, it didn’t bother him. It didn’t faze him.

It wasn’t hard to get into Bruce’s alcohol collection. He didn’t care to lock it up, and Tim doubted he’d miss any from the vast number of bottles. Tim retreated to his room with the bottle and a box in his hand. He sat on a chair in his bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. Bruises were peeking up from his chest from the beating he received tonight. His eyes looked exhausted and dull in the mirror. Eyebags seemed to age his face by 10 years. He didn’t look like a 17-year-old, he looked like he was almost 30. Was life supposed to feel like this? Was it supposed to be this miserable and unfeeling? Tim carefully opened the box and looked down longingly.

It goes by might of being such a flood  
Held high at so unnatural a level  
It will have outlet brave and not so brave  
Weapons of war and implements of peace  
Are but points at which it finds release

Tim Drake never felt brave. No matter how much everyone told him he was. He was a normal 13-year-old who had dedicated his life to training to better himself as a vigilante. He didn’t have to take up the mantel, but he was brave enough to. But was it bravery? Or was it needing to be needed? He hated how delicate his mind was, how delicate his psyche was, but it wasn’t something he knew to control yet. He felt so much, that it was feeling like he wasn’t feeling at all. He played with the scalpel blade in his hand. It wasn’t hard to take it from the med bay, and Tim doubted Alfred would notice anything was missing (he was wrong.) The blade sliced into his calloused hands, but it didn’t bother him. He sighed as he opened the bottle, the harsh scent of alcohol hit his nose and he almost recoiled. He didn’t like the taste of alcohol typically. Bruce would usually let him drink on special occasions but now he needed something to feel alive.

He took a swig and felt the alcohol burn down his throat. He felt warm and it was comforting. He leaned back into the chair and thought to himself. ‘Is this even worth it?’ He just wanted to go to bed and he wouldn’t mind if he never got up again. He was just exhausted. His closed his eyes and took another swig. The blade between his fingers felt so foreign. It had been so long since he had done this, he had done so well. 

The blade ran across his skin like silk. Lines pinked up and then dripped down his arms. Knocking back the bottle once more he continued his mutilation and a sense of relief filled his body. It was like the numbness breaking it’s hold on him. Suddenly it hit him and he choked on his sobs. The reality of what his life was hit him hard. His losses hit even harder. Could he ever escape from the abyss he had fallen into? The bruises aches, the lacerations stung, all the pain was hitting him at once and it was all too much. Raggedy gasps broke the silence of the night as he struggled to breathe. His body trembled and moved in mechanical, unnatural ways as he continued his massacre of himself. Lines blurred together until there was a mess of red that he couldn’t distinguish anything anymore. His arm and his eyes stung as a torrent was unleashed.

Sweat collected in his hairline as his body wasn’t processing the alcohol. He looked up in the mirror. His hands were gripping his hair and blood was smeared on his face as it continued to drip down his arm. His face was flushed bright red and he stared into his eyes. They were no longer empty and dull, they were full of emotions and fear. Fear of what he was doing to himself. He was falling even deeper into a pit and he knew it was going to be impossible to crawl out himself. He needed help and that scared him. His problems were catching up to him in ways he never expected and it was terrifying. He thought he could outrun them forever but he was losing his stamina. 

The more he looked at himself the sicker he felt. His face looked like he had aged so much. His eyes were sunken in and looked bruised and puffy. His face was flushed an unnatural color. His face was gaunt and his cheekbones jutted out. His hair was getting long and unruly. His hair had thinned considerably and was falling out by the handfuls. All the while looking at himself a voice in his head kept nagging at him. ‘You did this to yourself. You’re pathetic and disgusting.’ ‘Who would ever want you? why would they ever help you? You’re no 

And now it is once more the tidal wave  
That when it has swept by leaves summits stained  
Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.

Tim covered his ears in a desperate move to block out the voices. They just got louder and it echoed around him until he dropped down to his knees. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut trying to block out all stimulation. His head dropped between his forearms and the sobs grew louder as time passed. He didn’t know how long had passed, whether it had been hours or minutes. Regardless, the bleeding had stopped and the dust had settled. His clothing and his face were stained red with blood. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked at the aftermath. Shame filled his whole body as he looked at the damage he had caused. The numbness had set in but those aching thoughts were filtering back in slowly. He shut his eyes and sighed. He didn’t have the energy to fight off the feelings anymore. His feet dragged the ground and he found himself lying down into his bed. The soft mattress was so welcoming and cozy and inviting. His foggy head told him to close his eyes and rest. And rest he did. None of his feelings could be contained and maybe this was the lesson he learned. And with that Tim Drake was now off in his own world, dead to his world.


End file.
